


Late last Saturday, Saturday night

by dulce_melos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deans_green_eyes, Gen, People just have no idea, Sams_dimples, barfights, brothersWinchester, even after they see it themselves, outsidePOV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulce_melos/pseuds/dulce_melos
Summary: It started off normal enough, Saturday night. Even the fight between the locals and those two good looking strangers … it was a pisser, sure, but not too far off a regular weekend.Until I’m on the way home and I bump into them again. Well. Everything goes off the rails, then.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Takes place somewhere early to mid-season four. Dean’s back and well, he’s … adjusting.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sam and Dean and the world of Supernatural belong to other people. No profit made, no disrespect intended.

The clink and clatter of glass is my music. That and voices, laughter and the sound of liquid pouring, neat, into a tumbler, or over ice. Tonight’s no different than any other -- the bar is packed and the noise is a clamoring thing, settling over me like coming home. College kids and sports, conversations and the sound of pool tables, racking n’ breaking. I’m almost humming under the chaos of the Saturday night crowd, with a quick swipe of a damp rag across the bar, sopping up spilled whiskey and beer.

I’m being watched. It’s not unusual, since it’s always busy here … and whether they’re drunk, rowdy or just having fun, most people are polite enough to let me clean up before they ask for a drink.

I look up, nodding at the man across from me. He’s like a lot the guys that come in here, young and casual for the weekend, in blue jeans and a couple of layers for fall weather. I take this in about the same time I absently note he’s handsome. The chiseled playboy/model type of handsome, in case you’re wondering. His eyes are green. The green of a forest after the rain, or grass lit up with morning dew. They make my breath catch and then he smiles. _Damn._

“Hey, darlin’.” He lays a few bills on the counter. “Two beers, please.”

“Sure thing,” I smile back and hope I don’t sound like my heart’s beating double-time. Reaching down as I answer, I snag two bottles and pass them up. He takes them and turns, heading back to the pool table -- one side of his mouth is quirked up in this little grin that says, yes, he sure as hell heard my heart tripping along at 2x normal, bastard.

Someone else steps up then, partially blocking my view as he reaches the table, handing one of the bottles to a tall guy with longish hair, waiting for his drink and leaning lazy on a pool cue. He’s talking with one of the regulars, and I feel a twinge of worry. Saul, the guy they’re playing with, comes off real sweet and friendly until things don’t go his way. He’s got a flash temper and hates losing. I look around and see Saul’s buddies are there too, lounging on stools against the wall and watching the game. Again that twinge in the back of my mind … but the kid in front of me wants a drink (I say kid, ‘cause he is, just turned twenty-one by the ID he shows me). I mentally prepare myself to take his keys later that evening, already knowing where that’s headed. Then, someone else steps up for a vodka tonic and I forget about the guy with green eyes.

It’s later that night, maybe an hour before closing. I’m wiping the bar top again, finally getting to move a little slower. It’s been crazy (even for a Saturday) and the bar is hot, like it always gets with too many bodies in the small area. The pool tables are still running and I hear it like white noise, moving to stand over the tiny vent pumping cool air at my feet. I sigh and tip my head forward, trying to ease the tension in my neck.

But then something tugs at me – an angry undertone in the layers of voices. It’s a warning I know better than to ignore, borne of nights just like this, when too many people and too much liquor, spend too much time in a small space.

I look up sharply and see the beginnings of the storm. Now that I’m listening for it, I can make out what they’re saying. “You been conning me all night. You’re tryin’ to rip me off.” Saul. Friendly smile gone and I can see that mean look in his eyes that always means trouble.

“You’re mistaken, friend.” It’s green-eyes. He’s down to a black t-shirt and jeans in the heat of the room, having shed the layers he was wearing earlier -- his jacket and long-sleeve plaid, laying across a stool against the wall. He’s standing there cocky as you please, leaning on his pool cue with a half-smile. A smile that might seem sincere, if it weren’t for something in the back of his gaze that I can’t quite place.

Not one for subtleties, Saul shakes his head, roughly drops his cue, throwing it, really, against the wall. It bounces and almost falls. “You think so?” And the words must mean something else in man-speak. Saul’s friends stand up, stepping forward and it’s more than a threat. I see the long-haired friend of green-eyes take note. He hasn’t gotten involved – he’s up against the wall, shoulders braced against it, holding his pool cue in one hand, the other loose on his hip. He’s smiling, too, showing dimples that I suspect are amazing when there’s humor behind it. This smile, though? I wouldn’t want it directed at me. Lethal and sharp-edged, a shark in bloodied waters.

Something squirms in the pit of my stomach, in that heartbeat of time, as Saul’s face twists and he lunges. Too quick for me to do anything but watch (from half-way across the bar), two of Saul’s friends dive for green-eye’s arms. Rough grips hemming him in with bruising strength. The cue clatters to the floor, with a sound that says it’s broken. A bottle falls, shattering. Saul steps forward, snarling, leaning into the fist he punches into the man’s stomach. My mouth tightens and I’m reaching for the alarm, pissed as hell because all this means I won’t be going home anywhere close to closing. At the same time, I see the long-haired guy launch off the wall, shockingly quick, throwing himself into the man holding his friend’s left arm. Saul’s man goes down hard, a ridiculous expression of surprise on his face when his hold is jerked away. Green-eyes anticipates the yank, bracing for it, half-turns to the one holding his other arm, and Saul, poor bastard, hasn’t figured out there’s a bigger problem here. Saul swings another clubby-fist, this one to the stranger’s face. He puts his weight behind it and my breath hitches – that’s going to hurt. It snaps the young man’s head back and I lose sight of those eyes for a moment. The stranger takes the hit with a grimace, and he’s turning, ignoring the flash of pain it must cause, slipping his shoulder from the grip of the other man restraining him. He throws a body shot into the generous gut of Saul’s buddy and I don’t quite follow how he does it, but the next thing I know he’s got his assailant’s arm twisted back in a lock, putting the sorry local up on his toes, to ease the strain on his arm. Green-eyes doesn’t hold on long, pushing sharply to throw his (now former) assailant into Saul. Saul and his buddy go down with startled yells, in a tangle of arms, feet, and a bar stool or two.

“Sam!” The stranger spins, diving for the struggle in the corner between dimples and two guys, pushing past two others (apparently the only ones in Saul’s group with any sense … or maybe they’re just not as drunk). One’s trying vainly to break up the fight and the other is hesitating, just out of punching range. Green-eyes reaches for one and takes an elbow to the face – I don’t hear anything over the noise, but it looked like it would knock stars across your eyes -- he shakes his head quickly, blinking and slipping an arm under a shoulder (Eddy, that’s Eddy. What an idiot), and whipping his hand and forearm up and around the back of Eddy’s neck, across the shoulders.  Even from here, I hear Eddy’s yelp of pain, once the half-nelson is set and a strong arm pushes down, making his neck creak. He flails, finds himself pushed up against the wall, wincing, with an ear crushed against rough stone for his efforts. I hear the stranger say, clear and low, “You want to stop this right now, buddy.”

But Eddy doesn’t know when to quit. Instead of giving in, he curses and bucks against the hold, the weight of him crushing green-eye’s fingers between him and the wall. I see something flicker in the stranger’s gaze and my heart stutters. The muscles in his arm and back tense under the thin black shirt and I take a breath to yell something, anything to stop this from getting worse and _where are the cops?_ When dimples (Sam) steps up behind the two and says, “Dean. Stop. Let him go.”

Dean’s mouth tightens and _he’s not listening, he’s not going to listen_ , but then Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Come on, man. They’re just drunk. Being stupid.” There’s something else that he’s _not_ saying, I can see it, sitting there behind his eyes. Hear it, in the pause before he finishes, “It’s not worth it.” Dean blinks and takes a breath. He breathes out again, slowly, tongue flicking out to catch the blood on the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah.”

Finally, he lets Eddy go, stepping back. Narrowed green scans over Saul and crew. Two of them step past him carefully, moving to wake the one dimples put to sleep. The rest, including Saul, back up, looking everywhere, except at the two men who’d beat them twice in one night. The stranger, Dean, laughs shortly. “Time to go, Sammy.” Striding over to the pool table, he slaps his hand over the bills laying there, pockets them, and walks over to retrieve his jacket and shirt.

Dimples … _Sam_ looks up and around and his eyes settle on me. I try not to look nervous when he heads over. I don’t know this guy. Regardless of the lack of threat in his gaze now, I remember the expression on his face, right before the fight -- even from a distance, you can read that kind of danger. My eyes flicker over the unconscious man he’s leaving crumpled in the corner.

“Hey, miss.” He says quietly, when he steps up to the bar (after walking through the few people left in the place, who hadn’t made a hasty exit when the fight started). He’s wearing a small smile and a careful expression, like he’s trying not to spook me. Too late for that.

“The police are on the way.”

He grimaces, nodding, leaning on the counter. He gives me this look that says _they really didn’t mean for this to happen._ Unaccountably, I find myself feeling bad for him. “Sorry for the trouble,” he says. He looks over at his companion. “Dean.” Green-eyes casts a sidelong glance at us, as he walks away from the pool tables. I can still see an edge that wasn’t there, when he’d stepped up to the bar earlier to get the beer. But Sam raises his eyebrows at the other man that clearly says _something_ and Dean apparently gets the message loud and clear. Sighing, he walks over, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few bills.

“Here,” he says, handing me two hundred in twenties. “For the damage. The pool cue and anything else, miss…?”

And like his friend, his expression is calculated and careful. It’s as if he turned a switch and forgets about everything that just happened. The last of that buzzing tension in his eyes dissolves and he treats me to a lop-sided smile when I reply, “Kelsey.”

He nods like he knew it all along, smile widening. “Kelsey.” And there goes my heart again. And he knows it, damn it. I hear a gusting sigh from Sam. Green-eyes looks down at that, smirking, before looking up again. The smirk turns wry. “Like Sam said – sorry for the trouble.” Then, from outside, sirens. The two exchange a meaningful look. Before I can protest, they’re gone.

The place is almost completely empty by the time the cops pull up, which doesn’t really make a difference. As expected, I don’t head home until over _four hours_ later, sometime after three a.m.

Damn bar fights.

It’s a lonely walk back to my apartment. The streets are silent and no one, absolutely no one, is out. I glance around, at the forest along the road, pitch black and rustling with the late night breeze and keep my steps quick.

Creepy forest.

Especially here, on the outskirts of town. Another reason I hate late nights. It really sucks that my car broke down and I can’t afford to get it fixed.

I walk past the only motel in this part of town and see it actually has guests tonight. A few sedans and some kind of muscle car, its paint gleaming black in the street light.

I hear a voice, not yelling, but raised and I pause, because there’s something familiar about it. I realize that the room that’s now closest to me (the one at the very end of the building), still has lights on.

“Dean, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean? _Ah._ The guys from earlier and a big part of the reason I am still awake past three a.m. Dean was … green-eyes, right.

What was dimples’ name?

“ _How_ , Sam? Is this my joking voice? We’re not leaving.”

“There’s nothing here! We need to find Lilith.”

“I don’t care about Lilith, Sam!” A pause and the faint sound of what might have been a sigh. “Look, man. I’m tired. I’m tired of all this death. Seeing it. Fighting it and _fuck it all,_ watching it come for me.” He laughs then, a short, heartbreaking sound, and I can almost imagine the expression that went with it. “For both of us.” He stops talking, and I wonder for a moment if he plans to continue. “I need a break. I almost … I almost really hurt that guy.”

A pause, like he’s searching for the right words, then Sam says, “We’ve done worse, when we had to.”

“He was an idiot, not a monster. And I almost -”

“But you didn’t.”

The next words are sharp and too sure to be comfortable. “I would have.”

“Dean …”

“If you hadn’t been there,” and then, that pain-filled laugh again. My chest tightens. “Please, Sam, let’s just stay. A little longer. The girl went missing just a block or two away. There’s a hunt here, I know it.”

It’s been a couple of minutes that I’ve been standing here, stupidly, head-cocked to hear what they’re saying. There’s no denying now, that I’ve been eavesdropping and I’ve gone from feeling guilty, to really nervous. Death and missing girls? Who are these guys?

Noise, then. Something being set down. A chair scooting across tile and I hear the sigh this time. “Okay, Dean.” Dimples … Sam must have sat down, because I hear the chair again and after a moment he says, “Let me get some research done on this. Get us some beer?” another beat and then, more quietly, “Are you all right?”

Keys jangle and I hear green-eyes say, “Yeah,” but it sounds tight, forced, and then, “Want anything else from the store?”

“Yeah. Grab some pretzels or carrot sticks, would you?”

“Chips it is.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

After that bewildering exchange, the door is opening and I should have noticed that, _hello_ , he’d be coming out soon, but I didn’t. And now there’s absolutely no where for me to go.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The hinges creak as the door swings open. I stand there like a deer in headlights (sans headlights) and I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, when Dean steps through the doorway. I’m to the right of the door, on the sidewalk that runs alongside the motel and edging the parking lot, but he immediately seems to know I’m there. His gaze snaps up to my face and who can do that at 3 a.m. in a dark parking lot?

“Uh. Hey,” he says, cautiously. “Kelsey, right?” He tilts his head. “Do I want to know why you are standing outside our motel room at --” and glancing at his watch, he continues, “just after three in the morning?”

I laugh a little, my mind spinning through possible excuses, before I realize that he wouldn’t know I’ve been there as long as I have, listening to their conversation like some kind of pervy stalker. “I was just walking home.” He frowns and I feel compelled to add, “My car isn’t working.”

“Didn’t the bar close at eleven?”

I roll my eyes, grimacing with a nod. “Yeah, the cops took a while and then I had to clean up.” He cringes visibly and it’s gratifying to see that he feels guilty. He doesn’t apologize again, though. Not much of a talker, I guess. “Sorry to have surprised you,” I say, with a vague kind of shrug like, _‘yes, how weird that I happened to be walking by, just as you happened to be leaving a really strange and disturbing conversation and I didn’t hear a thing, really, I swear.’_

One more laugh, nervous, and I desperately need to get out of here before this gets any worse. “Funny coincidence, huh?” I say (oh my god, Kelsey, shut up). “Um. I’d better get going, I have yoga class in the morning.” Mortified to the point where it’s actually painful, I turn with a sigh. Just another few blocks and I’ll be home.

“Wait.” I take a few more steps and he says, “Kelsey, wait.”

I stop, turning back, with no clue why he’d want to continue the conversation. Hoping I hadn’t pissed him off.

“It’s really late. I’ll give you a ride.”

“… What?”

He takes a breath, patient, and says, “A ride. I’ll take you home.”

“Oh,” my face heats and I try to get away gracefully. I take a couple of steps back, gesturing, and begin to walk. “Um, that’s nice of you, but my place isn’t far.” If what I’d seen and heard earlier was any indication of this guy, I shouldn’t be getting into a car with him.

But he’s shaking his head. “No.” There’s finality in the word and then he’s turning back to the room. I consider just taking off, but he keeps one eye on me as he opens the door a crack and says, “Sammy, it’ll be a little longer. I’m going to give Kelsey a ride.”

There’s no response and apparently in answer to something he sees, Dean whispers -- sotto-voce and low enough that I almost miss it -- “A ride _home_ , Sam.” He rolls his eyes, but they’re crinkling at the corners and one side of his mouth turns up. “Be back soon.” And just like earlier, when that frightening edge had dissolved from his gaze, I start to think it’ll be okay.

He looks over at me. “Kelsey? You ready to go?” I get by the look on his face that he’s picked up on how skittish I feel. But he doesn’t seem threatening (now) and though a voice in the back of my head is saying that kind of thinking could get me in trouble, in the end I decide to hell with it. It’s his fault I’m out this late anyway. The least he can do is get me home.

“Which car?”

He smirks and fans a hand across the lot. “Which one do you think?”

I scan over four sedans and a Geo, and finally point out the muscle car. “That one?”

“Damn straight, it’s that one.”

We’re talking about a car. But the way his voice lowers, just a little, and the playful grin he’s giving me, well, it’s obvious ... he’s the kind of guy my momma warned me about. But it’s also 3 a.m. and between the stress of the fight, the cops and the unintentional eavesdropping, I’m just too tired now to care. “Of course it is.” He hears the laugh in the last word and gives me a knowing smile. Thankfully, he dials down the charm a bit. Opening the passenger door with a flourish, he lets me find my seat. The large bench seat in the front makes it easy for me to find a place for my bag and cellphone, while he goes around to the driver’s side.

The car rumbles to life, loud in the early morning quiet. He doesn’t seem to care. He pops an old tape in the cassette deck and I’m a little stunned that it actually works. Some classic rock band starts up, in the middle of a song. I don’t recognize it. “Okay.” He pulls out onto the deserted street. The town’s small – considering where the bar is and that I had to walk past the motel, it’s pretty obvious which way he needs to go. “How far?”

“Not very. It’s just past Maple.”

He frowns. His eyes flick up and to the right, like he’s remembering the layout of the town. I wonder how long they’ve been here. “That’s pretty far, actually. At least on foot.” He shakes his head. “It’s dangerous, walking alone at this hour.”

I bristle a bit, who’s he to say? So much for not being a talker. But I guess, if I was totally okay with walking alone in the dark at 3 a.m. (didn’t I hear somewhere that they call that the witching hour?), the forest wouldn’t creep me out. “Can’t be helped, sometimes.”

“Don’t you have family, or a friend you can call for a lift?”

That was laughable. “… No.”

A crease appears between those remarkable eyes and he makes a sound of acknowledgement. We drive a bit more in silence, before he says, “Are you alone, then? Not married, no boyfriend?”

_Missing girls and death, Kelsey._

I look over at him, but I don’t feel spooked, or scared. Like maybe I should be, in a strange car with a strange man. Still, I don’t answer his question. “What about you? And your friend … Sam. Just passing through?”

A small smile, like he knows what I’m about. But my careful lack of trust doesn’t seem to bother him. “Yeah.”

“You seem to know your way around pretty well, for just passing through,” I comment.

“Oh, we’ve passed through before, a long time ago.” He flashes a quick grin at me, and it’s flirty and more than a little distracting. His eyes are restless, though, flicking back to the road. His mouth tightens and he’s avoiding looking at me, strong hands tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

It’s none of my business. The less I know about this guy and his friend, the better. “So, what brings you to town this time?” I’m starting to sound like the Spanish Inquisition, and Monty Python pops into my head as I hurry to say, “Just curious. Vacation?”

“Like I said,” he hedges. “Just passing through.” The tape ends and I smile at the little frown he gives the tape player before he pops it out.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, well, it was almost done when I put it in there,” he mutters, distracted. We’re at a stop light and the road is empty of cars. He turns, reaching over the seat to rummage in a box of tapes he has behind the bench. It lifts the back of his jacket and layered shirt as he leans over the leather back, and that’s when I see the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

My heart just about stops.

I must make some noise, because he pauses and pulls back, one eyebrow raised in question. But he gets a good look at my face and he must see something of what I’m feeling there.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. He doesn’t buy it and it might be because without realizing it, I’d backed up all the way against the door … and at that very moment, was wondering how far I could get if I jumped out of the car and ran. But he’s turned back to the steering wheel and started the car moving again, so that’s out, really.

When I don’t relax, he’s worried enough that he slows down. “Kelsey?”

And damn it, I’ve never been good at lying, even through omission. “Why do you have a gun?”

He looks surprised and he shifts, sighing. It seems unconscious, a way for him to check that the gun is still there, pressed against his lower back. Through it all, I get the feeling he’s searching for something he can say that I’ll believe. That freaks me out even more and I flash back to the glimpse I had of the look on his face, pulling Eddy off his friend to smash him against the wall. When we pull up to another stop light, I’m opening the door. “You know what,” and omg my voice sounds shaky and it’s a little hard to breathe, “I can walk from here. It’s really …”

“Kelsey, don’t.” As fast as the latch starts to click open on the heavy door, he puts the car in neutral and he’s moving over, leaning over me. Pulling the door shut sharply. And did I say omg before? Because omg, he’s leaning _across_ me – I feel his body heat, seeping through his shirt. I smell cologne and after-shave, and I gasp -- his hair brushes against the front of my blouse, as he sits back. But I’m on automatic pilot now, reaching for the handle again. _“Kelsey.”_ He sounds frustrated, maybe a little freaked, himself. He reaches out, gripping my arm and my pulse goes through the roof. I open my mouth to scream, but he quickly lets go, hands up and pulling back and then I’m out of the car. He is, too. His hands are still up, placating. I can’t believe I’m in this situation, but ta-da, I got in the car with him and now I know he has a gun … while I’m gun-less _and_ car-less. It’d be stupid to run. We’re not really near much of anything right now – a bare patch of asphalt in between the industrial warehouses that are more frequent in this area. If he wants to kill me, he could. He looks around and I think wildly that he’s trying to find a good place to hide a body. But he’s looking at the forest lining one side of the road, where leaves rustle in steady beats, weirdly, like someone’s walking there, in the pitch black shadows of the trees. His eyes narrow and his gaze jumps back to me. “Hey,” he says lowly, dipping his head lower and keeping eye contact with me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“How do I know that?” I’m backing up, my heart rabbiting in my chest.

He shakes his head. “You don’t, but” and he sounds worried. “I know you don’t know me –”

“No, I don’t. You were talking about missing girls earlier. And death. You have a gun … I-I can’t -”

His eyes have widened and now he doesn’t just sound it, he looks worried, too. “How much did you overhear?” I can see the gears turning. He’s running over the conversation again. He must realize I’d been listening for a while. “It’s not what you think.”

I don’t think I believe him.

He takes a step closer and I have to really wonder if he really meant to take me home at all. Why would he bring a gun on a trip to the grocery store?

He starts to say something else.

I turn my back on him and run.

The road is dark in front of me and the air between the warehouses seem to echo, it’s so empty. All I hear is my own frantic breathing, his curse, _“_ God _damnit,”_ and the scattered sound of gravel as he takes off after me.


	3. Chapter 3

I have a pretty good head start on him -- he has to get around the car, hop over the guard rail and cut across an empty parking lot, before he really starts to gain on me. And holy shit, it happens quickly; he’s fast. Out of desperation (and I’ll admit, I’m not really thinking clearly anymore), I dart across the road and into the forest. Maybe I can lose him in the trees.

Not such a good plan. The sense of open air disappears when I break into the tree line. I feel hemmed in and trapped, running headlong through bushes and brush. The sting of tree limbs striping my bare arms tells me I’ll have scratches there in the morning, and besides the whip of those, my path is full of bushes and roots and any other number of things to trip me up (deadwood, the odd boulder-sized pebble). It slows me down, with it being so dark -- the moon barely sneaking past the leaves. And there’s a gnawing certainty that he’s moving faster than I am.

I know this for sure, when I round a cluster of trees, foolishly thinking, “ _I can do this, he won’t catch me_.” Then the sound of movement behind and to the right is suddenly _right behind me_ and a strong arm catches me around the middle, lifting me off the ground in mid-stride.

He hauls me up against him and Jesus he’s strong. I must be flailing around, because his hold tightens, squeezing what air I have left out of my lungs. “Kelsey, stop!” Dean growls, low and tight, close to my ear, making my breath hitch. He wraps his other arm around me, catches one of my wrists. I can’t seem to pull my brain out of this fog of panic and the forest starts to spin around me. “Breathe, Kelsey. You’re hyperventilating,” he says. He sounds so calm, barely out of breath. I’m gulping down air and can’t get enough. “If you don’t relax, you’re gonna pass out.” His voice is matter-of-fact and it finally permeates -- that’s why the lightheadedness (hyperventilation = bad).

Also. A serial-killer probably wouldn’t be trying to help me to _not_ pass out, if I were next on his hit list.

I don’t say anything for a moment. I’m starting to get a finger’s edge on control and my breath is slowing down, but I’m blinking away tears. “I-I’m okay now.”

“Okaay. You’re not going to run off again, are you?” He leans down to look at me over my shoulder -- a breath or two puffing against my cheek -- and though he hasn’t let go, his grip loosens. “Or you have a cottage in the woods, maybe?”

I flash a miserable smile for the effort to make this better. “No, no cottage.” I tip my head towards where the road should be. “Uh. I may have panicked.”

I can’t see his eyes in the gloom, but I can hear them rolling in his reply. “No, really?” He exhales, heavy, saying, “Seriously, Kelsey, I was just giving you a ride. What did you think?”

I open my mouth, ready to protest and he says, “Don’t answer that.” Maybe he’d remembered that, yes, he had a gun that he didn’t want to explain.

But at this moment he seems perfectly reasonable, not the serial-killer type (if there is a type). I’m pretty sure I’ve reached stratospheric levels of embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling the flush creeping into my face. To keep myself sane, I tally my pre-panic things up – it was late at night, a creepy walk home, a scary conversation and -- a guy I’d seen take out three men in a fight had a gun and didn’t want to tell me why.

And then there was that other stuff, that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and what happened last year … but that wasn’t what made me drop all rational thought and run. Not really. It was that other, other, stuff. You know, what I said. Now, though, it was difficult to believe how frightened I’d been, in the face of those concerned green eyes. I sigh. “Um. You can let me go now.”

He nods and waits a beat, I guess gauging if I was telling the truth. Finally, he does. The air rushes in between us and I notice how warm my back isn’t, now that he’s let me go. I wonder if he can see how red I must be. I look up. He can’t. It’s way too dark. Also, he’s not looking at me. I follow the glance he throws across the trees around us and realize that, one, it is really freakin’ dark, even with moonlight dappling the ground around us, and two, I don’t actually know which way to go to get back to the road.

My stomach drops. “Uhm, do you know how to get back?”

He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, runs a hand through his hair to scratch at the back of his neck.

“God, I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

His mouth twists, “Yeah, but,” and he huffs a chuckle, “I’ve been in worse situations – trust me.” His words are only just fading in the air when the sound of a branch snapping reaches us. His eyes yank away from me and a moment later I see it too. The shadows around us are moving. We’re no longer alone.

“Who … what is that?” My voice is a harsh whisper, and my heart (that had finally begun to slow down) ratchets up to rabbit speed again.

He sighs. “I just had to open my mouth, didn’t I?” and then he mutters, “This is what I get for letting Sam stay at the motel.” He grips my arm again and this time I don’t shy away. I let him pull me closer -- until my arm bumps up against his -- the solid bulk of muscle reassuring, instead of frightening, now. “Who’s there?” He asks. A rough sound answers, like vocal chords that have been torn and sewn back together wrong. Laughter? A chill runs through me.

“Dean, what ..?”

“Quiet,” he says, harshly. “Let me listen.” His head is tilted to one side and he doesn’t look frightened, or even really worried – he does look tense, though. Alert.

More laughter, different from the first but just as ragged joins in. The hair on my arms stand up. What the hell laughs like that? They step out of the forest and I have my answer. My eyes sweep across the group once and then again, because I don’t understand what I’m seeing. They’re people, - _ish_ … on two legs, with four limbs, but hairy all over, with glaring yellow eyes, pointed ears and long _muzzles_ – that’s the only word to name them – ending with mouths full of long sharp fangs. They look like, erm, _werewolves_. But that’s impossible.

I must have said that out loud, because he says, “No, not werewolves,” like he would know? “Too _wolfy._ ” He takes a sniff of the air and his nose crinkles. That’s when I notice the smell, pungent and stinging my nose, like over-ripe, un-showered, or maybe dead, bodies. Like Mel (the town-drunk) after a binge, or college kids on spring break, when they don’t have professors to impress. My stomach turns over and I’m thankful I haven’t eaten for a while. Dean’s eyebrows lift, eyes widening, like he can’t believe it either. From his expression, he _has_ eaten and regrets it. “No, they sure as hell aren’t werewolves,” he mutters and his gaze goes thoughtful, like he’s scrolling through other possibilities. Which of course is insane, since _werewolves_ aren’t possible. But after a moment (while he still keeps wary eyes on the silent semi-circle of … things), he says, lowly, “They might be –”

He stops and I open my mouth to ask, _“They might be what?”_ but his eyes widen and his mouth twists as the closest one launches itself at us.

He rolls his eyes and he's bracing for impact, the arm I'm leaning against going tight. He spits out, “Oh, come _on,_ ” and there’s so much exasperation in his voice and absolutely no fear, but my mind can’t even process that little fact -- because I’m screaming, jumping back, mindlessly expecting him to dodge too. He pulls his arm back and it takes a second before the lightbulb goes off … he’s going for the gun. But the thing is frighteningly fast and there’s no way he can get to the weapon in time. His other hand goes for its throat (he barely manages it), and he goes down under what’s probably a couple hundred pounds of snarling teeth and muscle.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!” Looking for anything I can use as a weapon, there’s nothing around but wispy twigs and dry leaves. Dean is on his back, laying on the gun and the ‘too wolfy’ thing is snarling and snapping at his face, drool dripping from its jaws and running down his forearm. His other arm is holding back a fur-covered, wickedly clawed hand, but the razor-tips of them are creeping closer and closer to his face, as he steadily loses against the greater leverage of the monster on top of him. (Monster. Yes, monster. That’s what I said. Don’t look at me that way.) And there’s nothing I can do.

“ _Jasper!”_ I turn at the voice, “Cut it out, man. Get the hell off him,” and there’s a young man there. A _naked_ young man. Not furry, not wolfy and not the least bit self-conscious. Standing calm as you please between two that are both furry _and_ wolfy. And actually, I’m pretty sure there’d been seven of them a moment ago, but now there are six (including the snarling, drooling one) and naked-man.

The snarling one stops almost immediately when the words ring out in the night air. He pulls back, clambering off my former scary-ride-home and now protector. Jasper doesn’t back down, so much as back off, teeth still bared and claws ready to get back into it, but Dean doesn’t seem flustered at the situation at all. He just rolls to his feet when the other has given him enough room, as if being attacked in the forest by clawed and fanged man-wolves is absolutely normal. Grimacing, he shakes his arm to get rid of the drool. The stuff doesn’t particularly want to let go and I see a second where he thinks about wiping his arm on his jeans, before reconsidering. One side of his lip turns up in disgust and he exhales in a huff. “So. What’s the plan here, guys?”

He hasn’t reached for his gun yet and I wonder about that for a moment, but naked-man looks around, like he expects us to not be alone … because otherwise, he doesn’t understand Dean’s nearly complete lack of concern. And, well, I _know_ it’s just me and Dean out here and I can’t understand it either. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating again. “Hurry up,” the naked not-wolf says, to the group in general, “We’d better get out of here.”

The two nearest me move and then the rest of them, lurching forward in a rush. My breath stops. I can’t really see the details of it – I see five of them go for Dean and hands are grabbing me from the side and behind. I scream his name and he jerks around. For the first time, I see real fear on his face and know it’s not for himself. He throws an elbow into the face of the wolf behind him, and my stomach lurches when I see blood bloom across his chest from a clawed hand, as he yanks out of another’s hold. _Oh god, they’re going to kill him._

A flare of agony makes my vision go white. Pain announces itself from the back of my head … my vision pulses red around the edges, once, twice, before everything goes black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thank you to everyone who is following this story! Sorry the update took a while, it fought with me a bit, but I hope you enjoy the result.

“Hey.”

“Kelsey, hey … wake up.”

I hear the words from a distance, through a heavy fog of _godmyheadhurts_. Images flash by, snarling monsters, teeth. And my scrambled brain is not helping me sort anything out -- a piercing throb emanating from the back, just behind my right ear. Pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

“Come on, Kelsey. Come back to me -- rise and shine.”

The voice is quiet, like whoever’s speaking is trying not to attract attention. I recognize it – _him_. But my mind flutters around the ‘who’ part of the equation for a while, because my skull hurts so badly that I am actually afraid to open my eyes. I do, though, to a green, green gaze. It’s half-worried and half-tense, and it all comes rushing back.

Dean. I meet his eyes and some of the worry in his expression fades. I can’t help glancing over him. He seems okay, if you can call it that. After what just happened, I think I can call it okay, mostly. The plaid over shirt he’s wearing is torn at one shoulder. He’d been bleeding, the rips in his t-shirt still damp from it, wet-looking along the ragged cloth. _Clawed, that thing clawed him._ “Dean, where are – _”_   _we,_ my mind supplies, but then I’m asking a different question, “Those things, why –” and I can’t finish that thought either. Some small part of my mind recognizes that my voice is rising. I close my mouth before I get the kind of attention he’s obviously trying to avoid.

It was enough to get the message across, though. He understands panic-speak. He says, “Don’t freak out. We’re okay,” and finishes in a not-quite-mutter, “At least, for now.” I don’t pay attention to that though, ‘cause I’m still just breathlessly thankful that he’s here. A few feet away, facing me and _alive._ That relief dims pretty quickly, because I’m tied up, tight. Hands behind my back, cinched painfully together by rough, heavy rope. Tied to something that won’t let me budge, even a little. My legs are bound, too, but at least I can see how, so okay (except that it is so _not_ , but weirdly, seeing how makes it marginally less horrible).

The room around us is large and squarish, and if I had to guess, maybe twenty by twenty, with clutter along the walls to either side of us. A mud-brown hallway-type wooden table is against the left wall, maybe three feet across and a foot deep, with a lantern and a pile of stuff. My cell phone and purse. Another cell that must be Dean’s. His watch, the gun and a wallet. To my right, a door (the only entrance), next to a ragged, torn up couch and piles of … garbage. Bags, old clothes, rags and other things that blur to indistinct in the darkest corners of the room. So yeah. The room is deep with shadows, but I can see Dean well enough. A mixed blessing, because I can also see how much trouble we’re in.

I keep my lips clamped over hysterical laughter. My chest is tight and each breath comes a little faster than the last. _This happens in the movies, not real life._

I yank at the rope again. Some tendon or muscle in my shoulder burn, bright and hot enough that I know not to do it again. The ropes aren’t moving at all. It’s clear that I can’t get free and I tell myself to quit, before I cause some real damage. But the horror of what is happening turns into a vice on my chest, that some bastard is gleefully tightening. I yank, twisting, pulling at the ropes again.

Dean watches me, disapproval clear in the flat line of his mouth. I’m not exactly ignoring him, it’s more that I don’t think about it, until it finally seeps through -- the rough scrape of the ropes chafing, harsh against my wrists. I wince, he’s sees it and then he’s had enough, saying sharply, “Stop that, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Dean is tied up just like I am. Roped up with his back pressed against a post that runs from floor to ceiling. There must be a matching post behind me and it’s why I can barely move.

“I don’t understand,” I say, but at least it’s not sheer panic in my voice anymore. Just regular, taken-by-‘not’-werewolves panic. Dean looks up again and I close my eyes, hard. Shake my head (which is a mistake), and when the pain calms down, I look at him -- hoping that maybe he’ll shed some light on this. But he doesn’t say anything, he’s looking me over with a frown.

“Your head?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell if you’re bleeding? I can’t see from here.”

I blink, easing my head one way, than the other, slowly. “It, uh, it’s okay, as long as I don’t make any sudden movements.”

“Alright,” his mouth twists, not quite a smile, something like guilt hiding in his eyes. “Don’t make sudden movements, then. And no sleeping, okay?” I smile at him and it’s got to be a little frayed, but he’s kidding, right? He’s talking like we’ll be here a while, but we can’t be _stuck_ here. I don’t think I can handle sitting here, tied up, for who knows how long. I look at Dean, who’s been in two fights already tonight. He has to be faring worse than me. He’s got a split lip that I don’t remember seeing him get. The shadow of a bruise is darkening along his jaw on the right side, where the lamp is shining on it. I’m not sure if it’s from just now, or from earlier, at the bar.

I take a deep breath, hoping for more answers. When the silence stretches out, I say again, “I don’t understand any of this.”

He nods, not seeming inclined to say anything more. Instead, he says, distractedly, “I know.”

He’s shifting (or trying to). He’s got his legs bent at the knee, heels down and he’s pushing back into the post he’s tied up against. My wrists are throbbing enough now that I have no interest in pulling at the rope again. It’s pretty obvious what he’s trying to do. _Stop it, he says, you’re gonna hurt yourself, he says._

_He’s one to talk._

I wait for a few minutes, flexing my fingers -- it would be nice if the pins-and-needles feeling would stop. And, “That wasn’t real. Costumes. They were wearing costumes. Cosplayers, or whatever.”

He spares a glance up to say, “You were there, too, right?” The charm from the bar is gone and okay, I’d be irritable, too, after the night he’s had. Still. It’s starting to dawn on me that between the two, Sam’s probably the one that normally does the talking.

We’re silent again. The only sound is our breathing and the creak and scrape of him moving. His eyes have dropped closed, his eyebrows are creased in concentration. Lamplight is dusting across the freckles on his cheeks, and I frown. Was he that pale before? Maybe it was the blood loss. I have no idea, I’ve never been in this situation before. What if it is? My heart stutters at the thought, but he seems pretty much unhurt except for being roughed up. And how messed up is it that, in the couple of hours since seeing him for the first time, I see being ‘roughed up’ as ‘pretty much unhurt’.

So what was it, then? Not the whole monster thing (and how could it not be). I’m pretty sure he’d been more upset about the $200 he’d given me for the broken furniture and pool cue, than seeing those things in the forest. Now, though, his jaw is clenched and tension is singing in the air between us -- his breathing is kicking up, faster than it had at any point up to this moment. This--this _whatever_ it is, is something else, and it shatters the little calm I have left. I must make some kind of sound, because he responds to it almost as if he doesn’t have a choice. His eyes snap open, eyebrows drawn tight and instantly checking on me. Like taking care of others is so ingrained he can’t help it.

And that’s when I see it.

It’s only a flash, fading already in that moment of unguarded attention, in the shadowed green of his eyes. A deep, hollow ache, still raw, still sore. It tugs something tight in me, an automatic response to the echo of a pain I’ve never known. And it’s so terrible, it’s like. Like it left a permanent mark on him.

It hurts, enough that my breath catches, stolen away before I can take in another. I don’t know how to deal with it. But like someone who’s used to hiding, he catches that hitch in my breath and knows. He frowns with the realization, clearing his throat and looking down.

My voice is breathless even in my own ears. _“What is it…?”_ I didn’t really mean to ask. And I feel guilty for the question, because under the twist of my stomach, I know I’d seen something he hadn’t meant to show.

He looks away, teeth gnawing at his lower lip, taking a slow deep breath. When he looks back at me again, his gaze is shuttered and all I see is what everyone else must see, too. “Kelsey. It’s gonna be okay.”

It takes a moment before I can respond. I’m not even sure what I’m responding to. “No, it isn’t. You’re freaking out too.”

His mouth twists, wry, and it’s as fake as the smile he gives me. But when I hold his gaze and wait, he looks away again. Maybe I shouldn’t push, maybe I wouldn’t normally. It’s his business and I don’t know if I want in on the kind of hurt I think I saw.

But this? This is so far out of normal, I think I get a pass. He must think so, too, because after a moment, he huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah, maybe I am freaking out,” he says, voice raspy and low. It sounds like it’s actually painful to say. His chin’s tipped down and his eyes are in shadow. He continues, “But it’s not this, Kelsey. It’s me.” A deep breath. “This is just. Me. My own hang up. A recent one.” I don’t say anything to that, because, what the hell does that mean? The whole being-attacked-by-fictional-creatures doesn’t seem to bother him. His breathing is slowing, but now that I know it’s there, I can see it, still (no matter how much I might not want to), fear and anger and other emotions all tangled up with something wrenchingly aching, simmering under the surface. My eyes search his face, stark and pale under the clear color of his eyes. The glimpse is enough to disarm me, and I look away. I want to ask, what happened to you? Dean, was it as bad as I’m guessing? Was it worse?

But, he’s a stranger to me -- I have my own hurts. I know better than to stab at someone else’s. So, I take a few seconds to just breathe. Then, “They’re going to kill us, aren’t they.”

“No. They aren’t,” and “We’re getting out of here.” He sounds so certain, I almost believe him.

Blinking quickly, I nod. It may be a little shaky, but I don’t think anyone can fault me for that. Anyway, they’re nice words, but I don’t see how we’re going to find our way free of this. It sure seems like he’s as stuck as I am. “This isn’t real. This is a nightmare, and I’m going to wake up in my apartment.”

Some of his earlier charm appears and one side of his mouth quirks. He winks, “Honey,” he says, “If this were a nightmare, you’d have different company,” he pauses, and drawls, “I’m less stuff-of-nightmares and more sweet-dreams-are-made-of-this.”

It’s a distraction-tactic, but I laugh anyway, because it’s just so over-the-top (and ok, true). He’s trying, so I do, too, pushing back my terror enough to roll my eyes at him. He flashes a quick grin at that, but it’s a momentary thing. Before I even blink, it’s gone and he’s gotten back to whatever he’s doing with his hands. With his attention focused elsewhere, soon enough my stomach is back to roiling and turning over.

My brain is pretty gone at this point. It’s been a long day – with the added bonus of a world reorienting monster encounter and getting slammed in the head. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I listen to the occasional muttered curse from the man in front of me, dividing my attention and trying to listen for anything going on outside the room. From the pile of stuff on the table, I hear a cell phone ring. Dean’s eyes flick in that direction, before he goes back to cursing and contemplating the floor. It takes a bit, but I realize there’s a name peppered in among the half-swallowed words. _Sam._ I wonder where his friend is now. Is he starting to worry that Dean hasn’t gotten back with the beer?

How long are we going to be stuck here?

How long before they come in and eat us?

That’s what monsters do, right?

Thankfully, I don’t have long to play with those questions, before Dean huffs a breath, relieved, and his hands come around the front, trailing remnants of rope. I’m too surprised to say anything. He starts working on the ties on his ankles, when there’s the sound of chaos breaking loose in the next room. A crash, yelling. The sounds of a body (maybe more) falling.

Dean smiles, then. A quick grin, full of teeth. He says, “That’s our cue.” Then he’s up and over to me, kneeling to get my ropes undone. He gets one hand loose and his fingers are tugging at the rope around my other wrist. I hear more shouts, getting closer and something big slams against the door. The old wood lets loose a painful screech, before whatever it is slams into it again, frighteningly loud. A startled shout is ripped out of me when it breaks inward, chunks of debris and _people_ crashing through it. Another shout, cut short and Dean is more than leaning towards me – he throws an arm up over my face, tucking my head into his shoulder. He gets hit by one of those flying somethings, because I feel it shudder through his body, hear the sound of it in his voice, when he makes an unconscious noise. I have to wonder if throwing himself over me is instinct or if he does this kind of thing all the time, because he didn’t hesitate. That thought comes a minute later, though, because at the moment all I register is the smell of blood from the claw marks on his chest, forest leaves and sweat, and the rush of other scents I’d caught in the car. The sound of his breath and God, the heat of him. Then he’s up, pulling back, asking, “Are you okay?”

I barely get my head to nod and I’m trying not to shake. He pivots, briefly taking in the two men still struggling, where they’d landed after falling through the door. I almost giggle hysterically, thinking _‘literally, falling_ through _the door.’_ A quick stride to the wall, and Dean knocks a chair over, plants his foot on one of the legs and pulls. The muscles under his shirt bunch. Screws give with a screech. Pulling the leg free, he spins, flipping the wooden leg as he does, so he’s got a solid grip on it. He takes aim over the two struggling forms and whips it one-armed into the back of the head of the one on top – the wolfy-man-thing -- with bruising force. It’s the bad-guy, obviously, but I still cringe at the solid _thunk_ of it, before the creature goes limp and heavy over the person underneath it.

“Ugh,” comments the newest member in the room, in a voice I recognize. The unmoving wolf is shoved to one side and Dean smiles and reaches down to offer a hand to the man on the ground. Sam takes it, he’s fine, obviously, and though I don’t know how he found us, relief rushes through me like a splash of cold water. Before I have a chance to say anything about it, there’s a sense of movement that draws my eye to the unconscious wolf. I feel myself frown. A few scant heartbeats go by and the form shimmers and changes, leaving a scruffy looking young-man with brown hair and a stubble-covered chin in its place. My heart skips, my gaze darting to the other two men, both of whom are watching the change with narrowed eyes. Dean doesn’t comment and neither does Sam, but he nods like it confirms something for him.

Another beat of silence and then Dean says, “Took you long enough.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What’dya mean, you’re welcome? I was already free. I’d a died of old age, waitin’ on your slow-ass.”

Sam shakes his head. “And how were you planning to get past the ones out front and patrolling outside? I don’t see any weapons in here.”

“My gun’s right on that table.”

Sam’s expression turns wry, one side of his mouth turning up. “Like that would’ve helped with these guys.”

Undeterred by whatever the hell that meant (because what, is the gun not loaded or something?), Dean shrugs. “Meh. I’d have figured something out.”

“Sure you would have.” And Sam rolls his eyes, but the quirk of his lips says he’s used to similar responses. “Hey, Kelsey,” and his voice is softer now. He walks over to me, taking the initiative when he sees Dean mid-grimace, reaching awkwardly overhand to feel behind his shoulder (where the door-bits must have hit). It really registers how tall he is, when his shadow falls over me and I’m craning my neck to see his face. When he pulls out a wicked looking knife with an etched blade, my heart gives a little lurch, but he’s not threatening. He crouches down to finish what Dean started, huge hands sure and careful, cutting me free. “How about we get you home?” He looks sideways at Dean, mock whispering, “You’d think he could’ve done something so simple.”

I laugh, a little helplessly. Dean scowls. “Hey!” But after a quick glance at Sam, he’s already moving to collect his things from the pile on the table with his cell phone. He picks up my bag and cell, hands it over to me and returns to the table. Conversationally, he says, “How’d you find us? Cellphone?”

“Cellphone.”

Dean nods. “Yeah.” He pulls the gun out of what’s left on the table, checking it quickly. He waves it in Sam’s general direction. “See. Weapon.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean looks at me and winks. I can’t help the smile I give him in response. Then he looks over at the Sam, eyes sharp and message so clear I almost hear it. _“Time to go.”_ Sam nods, and as simply as that, their joking air is gone. They step up to the door, silent and watchful, one taking either side. Dean holds a hand up to me, signaling me to get behind him. I scramble to comply, my heart kicking up, but not nearly as gut-clenchingly frightened as before.

The two men move into the outer room and it’s like a dance they’ve done a million times. Sam’s got that frightening looking blade and Dean holds the gun, and it’s so natural it’s like they grew up like this – with weapons in their hands. They check every inch of space and somehow, I know they’re aware of every creak and whisper of sound, as they ease from one room to the next. Every little bit, they catch each other’s gaze. Dean nods, Sam jerks his chin, and they move on.

_Who are these guys?_

The house is small. It doesn’t take long to make it through the few rooms to the front door. We pass a few … make it five … unconscious man-wolves. At one point the two men pause, rifling through the contents of an odd table with symbols carved into it and a large wooden bowl in the center. They don’t say anything, just pass a significant look between them before we’re moving again. More quickly than before. We’re almost out of there and my heart’s lifting – I’ve taken the first rustling step back into the forest surrounding the house when the sound of a car engine and an outraged shout from the direction of the house we’d been “guesting” in, reaches us.

“Dean,” Sam says.

“Well, we knew it couldn’t last,” Dean responds, as my heart ratchets up to rabbit speed for the fourth(?) time tonight. “Kelsey, pick up the pace.”

Sam’s hand is on the small of my back, as he effortlessly finds his way in the near-pitch black, the glow from the flashlight he produces (from somewhere in that oversized brown jacket he’s wearing), bobbing madly in front of us. It saves me the embarrassment of stumbling when my feet can’t keep up and something to focus on instead of what might be in the dark we’re leaving behind. The clamor back the way we came is gaining volume and proximity (I’d guess, since there was no way I was looking back), but it’s not until Sam yells and the heat of his hand is gone, when I realize just how close they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: so, if you’ve looked at this chapter before, I should probably mention that I’ve added a bit. Yeah, I mentioned it fought with me, and well, it just wasn’t where I wanted it. This is finally it, I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

After Sam yells, the light we’d been using disappears like a snuffed-out candle. The moon’s up, so it helps, just not enough to get my heart out of my throat. Dean’s up front, but he snaps around so fast, it’s like he felt whatever grabbed the other man. “Sam? _Sam!_ ”

I hear the sounds of a struggle, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It’s like I can’t breathe -- fear so tight in my chest I know my heart’s going to burst. We’re near some kind of break in the forest, because once the light goes out, my eyes begin to adjust. Soft light sprinkles the forest floor, brightening the shadows around us. When moonlight reflects off the handle of the darkened flashlight, I run over, pick it up.

I flick it on and freeze, because there’s Sam, struggling and furious, with an arm like steel wrapped tight around his throat.

He’s arched backwards and crouched, half-kneeling, head held at an awkward angle away from the claws digging into the artery beating in his neck. His breathing puffs in uneven beats, harsh and strained, one hand pressed against his side. He jerks, sharp and angry and wanting free. But the arm around his neck shifts and his breath hitches, a wince passing quickly over his face. The glow of the flashlight glints off a thickening line of blood, trickling to run down the chord of his neck.

I hear a sound of anger next to me and the ratchet of metal on metal, clicking. I look over. Dean has the gun cocked, raised … and has it trained, hard and unflinching on the creature holding Sam. The look in his eyes makes my blood run cold.

His voice is a low growl. “Let him go.”

The arm holding Sam belongs to Mr. Naked-man, not so naked now. He must be their leader? And by the way he looks, it seems he can change forms at will – not entirely wolf or human now, he’s transformed just enough to show claw-tipped fingers and a hint of fangs (that has to make speaking hard). There’s fur sticking out around the edges of his clothing, that at a party might seem costume-ish, almost laughable ... tufting at his collar, sleeves. Here, there’s nothing funny about it. Not in the way he looks, his voice, or the smell of blood in the air. “ _Yeeeaah_ , no,” he slurs. Almost casually, he yanks back, hard enough to cut off Sam’s air. Mouth dropping open, both of Sam’s hands jerk up, straining against the unforgiving arm of the wolf. “Drop the gun, or he’s dead.” Chuckling, the monster-man eases up, but not before one more vicious press that stretches the kneeling man back. Sam’s shirt drags up enough to show a strip of skin over one hip, that anywhere else (and in different company) might have been sexy. But when he’s pulled back, his eyes go wide, expression twisting, letting one hand go from where he’s trying to get air, to press, urgent, against his ribs.

My breath hiccups at the pain on his face and I can’t help my frantic step forward, but Dean throws an arm out to stop me. My eyes flick between the two young men, the one being held and the one holding the gun, its flat-gray metal reflecting moonlight.

If I thought Dean was upset when the wolves came after me, there’s a whole world of difference now, in the shadows lining his face and the glitter of his eyes.

Dean’s voice, when he speaks, sends a chill up my spine. “Let him go,” he says again, “and you get to live.”

The wolf-man opens his mouth, but someone else responds. “Temper, temper.” It’s a new voice. Smooth, amused. Female.

Eyes darting over to a patch of darkness out of reach of the flashlight, Dean smiles. It’s just as cold as his eyes, and it makes me think of a predator that’s found its prey. “What, couldn’t stay away from your pets?”

A low laugh and I hear footsteps now. I still can’t see who belongs to the voice. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Drop the bullshit, lady.” The comment is almost casual, bored, but the hand holding the gun hasn’t wavered. “What you got here? It ain’t real.” He snorts. “You think this little spell you’re running’s gonna last?” Shaking his head, he continues, “These poor saps, don’t even know what hit them, do they? They think it’s the real deal.” He gestures with the gun, a small movement, but enough to draw my eye to the cold steel. “You’re all the confirmation I need. I don’t even need silver to take care of these guys.”

“Shut up,” she snaps. “It _is_ the real deal,” she draws out the last two words, voice snide and biting. “Lycaon’s curse.” I hear the smile when she gloats, “Zeus … you know, the _god?_ He used this himself.” The voice turns flippant. “For me, it’s easy to cast. Easier to keep going. I just need a little fuel.”

“The girls,” Dean mutters, knowing and horrible. My mind stumbles, still too stuck on spells and curses to really understand what that implies. “So, this is just a power trip for you?”

Two more wolf-men appear out of the dark. “Hardly. But I do like having my own pack of … wolves.” She exhales slowly, and it’s uncomfortably like a moan. My stomach turns over. “And, well, why collect pets, if you don’t want them close by?”

There’s a curl of disgust in Dean’s voice when he responds. “Lady, you need help.”

She laughs. “I think you have it backwards.” One of her wolves jump forward, grabbing me, wrenching my arms back. The burn in my shoulder comes back, shooting through me as sharp-edged as broken glass. Then the other goes for Dean and it looks to me like Dean’s done talking, but the woman says sharply, “No, leave him. He won’t do anything _inadvisable,_ as long as we have his friends.” A pause and I hear Sam take a harsh breath, at the same time the wolf holding me yanks on my arms. I can’t help the cry of pain. And then, her voice, smooth like silk. “Will you?”

I’ve dropped the flashlight, but the moon decides to come out full-force, burning past the sparse leaves around us and lighting up the area in soft yellow. The adrenaline rush and fear draws everything into sharp focus. Still, I can barely hear what she says over the pounding of my heart. “I’d lower the gun, handsome. One of them will be dead before you can get to both of my wolves.”

The words are fading in the air, when a woman steps out of the gloom. She’s small. Petite, even. Straight blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. Jeans and a soft flowing blouse that looks expensive, even in the meager light. I don’t recognize her. One side of her mouth turns up and I’ve never been violent, but I suddenly want (more than anything) to punch her in her pretty face.

“You don’t look stupid,” Dean lowers the gun, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurts. “I don’t get it,” he tells her. “You had to know that someone’d see what you’re doing here.” I don’t know if he’s stalling, or if he really wants to know. I do know he’s furious. There’s no way to miss that.

She laughs scornfully, pretty mouth twisting ugly. “By who, the town cops? Don’t make me laugh. Or … _hunters_?” She tilts her head, assessing him. “They’re running scared. Lillith has a corner market on horror and hunters are today’s special. Half-off.” She laughs.

Dean’s voice is flat, but I see unease flutter behind his eyes. “That so? Some of us aren’t afraid of her, dearie.” He continues, almost conversationally, “Where’d a petty, small-time witch like you, hear about Lilith?”

Her eyes flash at the slight, but then she smiles. “Oh. I have my sources,” she says coyly. “There might have been a ritual or two involved.” Reaching up, she pulls a necklace from her blouse. The faint clack of whatever is on it reaches me. White and rounded on the edges, the beads on it almost look like bones. “I was trying for something else, but when you’re tugging at universal powers, it tends to open the senses.” She chuckles. “You hear all kinds of things when you really listen.”

“Really,” and Sam’s voice is a hoarse rasp, off to my right. “Like what?”

“Like, the angels are losing a war.” She’s enjoying her gloat, eyes flitting between the two men and me.  “And people like me will be able to do whatever we want, soon. There is no one who can stop it from happening, except –”

“Do whatever you want? Like hexing up make-pretend were-wolves? Killing girls to power your spells? How many have you --”

“Killed?” She asks innocently. “I’m not really sure.” Lifting the necklace, she makes a show of counting the bones, they’re definitely bones, and shrugs. “I don’t really care.”

Dean’s face moves unwillingly from fury to disbelief. Finally, he says, “You’re it, lady.”

Her grin falters. “What?” He’s silent for long enough that she gives in and asks again, irritation bleeding into her voice. “I’m what?”

“You. Are the reason I _hunt_.” Dean snarls the words, and the wolf’s hold on me tightens. Claws dig dangerously into the tender skin inside my arms. I hardly feel it past the rage in Dean’s voice. Even without knowing him well, I can see how close he is to doing something _inadvisable._

I’m not the only one. “Dean,” Sam says, low and urgent. “Dean. Don’t.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

_“Dean.”_

The woman hesitates. “Dean?” She blinks. “Sam?” Her gaze moves from Sam to Dean and back again. Almost under her breath, she mutters, “There’s no one who can stop Lillith. No one who can stop the new reign. Except –” Her eyes widen. She looks between the two men again, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips. “The Winchester brothers.” Her voice sharp, she snaps, _“Kill them.”_

I hear a shout from Sam, cold spiking through me at the memory of claws at his throat. The wolf behind me wrenches at my arm, the same damn one as before. He pulls it past where my mind says it can logically go and something _pops,_ fire lighting up my brain so bright I can’t take the breath in to scream. It almost eclipses the pain the claws across my stomach make -- and as I drag in a desperate breath to make good on that scream -- Dean swings his arm up, sights along gunmetal gray and … puts a bullet in the woman’s brain.

A look of surprise crosses the witch’s face, and she drops without another sound.

The wolf pulls back, to, I don’t know, finish _killing_ me, but shrieks instead, dropping to his hands and knees. He’s writhing and screaming and it looks like his skin’s melting. I cringe back, my stomach threatening to toss up everything I’d eaten today. His fur drops in weird, clumpy tufts, littering the forest floor and finally, he seems to pass out. And then there’s naked guy on the ground. I look around. Make that three. Ta-da.

Swaying slightly, I take it all in. I want to ask Dean for the recap, because I really didn’t follow that whole thing, but dizziness hits me hard and the ground is a lot closer than it was a second ago. _Oh._ I’m on my knees, now. “Uh …” There’s agony where my stomach used to be. I press my good hand against the wet warmth I find there. I’d use both hands, but I can’t seem to lift my right arm.

And then Sam’s there, shallow scratches across the front of his neck, bloodied, but not dead. He’s breathing hard, his eyes are wide and worried, and he puts an arm around me. Steadies me. “Oh, god. Dean, get over here!”

I glance over and see Dean, hurriedly checking the other men. He doesn’t go over to the woman. A small part of my brain observes, _she won’t be needing any first aid._ And. _The girls Dean talked about. She killed them._

Sam lifts my shirt, hissing in sympathy. “Hold on Kelsey,” he says. He looks up again. “Dean!”

“Shit, _yeah_ , Sam! I just gotta make sure.”

Sam nods tightly and looks down at me again. “You’re going to be okay.”

“My arm, I can’t move it.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s dislocated.”

“Oh.” I feel pretty woozy, all of a sudden, and I’m seriously more worried about throwing up than anything else. I breathe breaths and then say, “This is what happened to her, too.”

“Her who, Kelsey?” Sam asks. His fingers are gentle, pushing my hand away and running over my belly, sending goosebumps chasing up my arms. I finally get a good look at his eyes. They’re hazel, I guess. They look almost gold in this light.

“You have kind eyes.”

He smiles, a little sad and still not meeting my gaze. “Her who, Kelsey?” He asks again, half-distracted as he finishes checking the wound. I gasp at the press of his fingers when he finds the edge of it.

“Sally. She died, last year. Her boyfriend killed her, though, not a … a wolfy-man-thing.” I close my eyes and the picture flashes through my mind again. Finding her ( _and the knife, that horrible, gleaming knife)_ , seeing the back of her boyfriend _(and what a laugh that was, to call him her friend)_ as he ran away, footsteps fading in the alley behind the bar.

Sam’s eyes soften, that sadness still there and deeper, now. He can’t know the story. He’s a stranger, just passing through. He hasn’t been around long enough to know about the murder that rocked the community. That I’d had to dodge the press for weeks, just to keep from going mad reliving it.

He can’t know the story.

Absurdly, I feel like he does. “No, Kelsey. This isn’t like what happened to Sally. You’re going to be okay.”

I shake my head. “You can’t trust people. Not really. Can’t trust strange men, or even the ones you think you know.”

He blinks quickly, the edges of his mouth thinning, his voice going soft. “Kelsey, no. You can trust people. Most of them, anyway. You can trust us.” He looks up again. “ _Dean_ , hurry _up!_ ”

Dean scrambles over, cursing, eyebrows creased and mouth turned down. He sees what Sam's worried about and strips off his shirt, wadding it up, as Sam is putting one arm under my shoulders and one under my knees. I’ve seen a lot of naked men in the last couple of hours. You wouldn’t think Dean shirtless would be so breathtaking. But, well, I’d be okay if he just stayed like that for a while.

I (almost) forget about the view a moment later. Because, even though he’s gentle and it seems like no strain for him at all, when Sam picks me up my shoulder protests -- a sharply-bright, deep stab of pain that makes my head spin. I gasp and Dean puts one hand on my cheek, turning my face so I’ll look at him.

“Kelsey,” Dean says, all urgent and concerned green eyes. God, his eyes are green. “You’re going into shock.” He lifts my hand, walking backward in front of us while Sam is turning, picking a direction. I pull my hand away, ridiculously worried suddenly, that I’ll get blood on him. “Stop, Kelsey,” and he’s got my fingers again, tight, in a warm and callused grip. “Take this.” He lays the shirt on the wound and presses hard. “Hold it here.”

“It hurts.”

“I know it hurts, darlin’, but keep it there. Press hard.” I do as he says and I was right, it hurts. My hand is shaking. The cloth is soft and worn thin. I feel bad. He probably liked that shirt if he’d kept it so long. Dean’s hand is still over mine, helping me press down. He peers into my face for a moment, searchingly, and his lips are tight with worry. “Sam, we gotta get her to the hospital.”

“I know that, Dean.” Sam bites off the words, sounding irritated and angry, but Dean doesn’t seem bothered by his tone. I see Sam’s eyes flick up, calculating. The taller man sighs, picking up his pace. The trees are sparse and the moon is even brighter here. He lowers his voice, pausing in his stride and turning his head toward Dean. (His _brother_? His brother. That’s what the witch said.)

Dean moves up to listen. Sam’s voice is a hissing whisper, all his tension and pressure captured in what he says next. “It’s too far, Dean. She’s lost … losing a lot of blood. Even after we get to the car, it’ll take us twenty minutes, half an hour to get there. Too long.”

“Shit. What about the kit? We get to Baby, stitch her up enough to get her to the ER.”

The taller man grimaces. “It’s, uh … it’s in the motel.”

_“What?”_

His calm finally shattering, Sam snaps, “What do you want me to say, Dean? It’s at the motel. It needed restocking. I didn’t expect you to stumble into a fucking _witch’s den_ and her homemade _wolven_ on the way to the store!”

Dean huffs a breath and runs a hand over his mouth. I get the feeling it’s something he does when he doesn’t know what to do. “Yeah.” He heaves a sigh. “Yeah. Sorry.” Hesitates, then says, “I. I’ll call Cas.”

Sam laughs shortly. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“You got a better one?” Dean’s silent, looking at his brother for a few moments. Apparently, he agrees with what he sees. Grudgingly, he says, “I know it’s playing with fire.”

“Yeah, Dean.” The taller man’s eyebrows are raised, incredulous, and I hear what he doesn’t say, _“That’s an understatement.”_ He says it like he can’t believe they’re even considering it. Like they have this kind of argument (about injuries and near-death and desperation) all the time. Sam’s quiet a moment before he says, voice frustrated and echoing between the trees, “We’re not even sure he’s on our side.”

“ _Damnit_ , Sam! He’s on our side. If it weren’t for him, I’d. I’d still be …” Dean shakes his head and stops talking. Turning his head away, jaw clenched. He closes his eyes and breathes out hard. “And yeah, it’s not a good idea. I pissed him off pretty good, the last time I saw him.” A breath and a sigh. “But it’s my fault she’s hurt.”

Sam’s mouth twists, as if the thought of this ‘Cas’ is actually painful, a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

Everything’s fading in and out, between the throb of my shoulder and my side, but I have enough presence of mind to wonder what some guy’s going to be able to do that getting to the hospital won’t. Why do I get the feeling that these two men, that faced what we just faced without any hesitation, are afraid of this Cas person?

What I’m thinking doesn’t matter, because then I hear, “Cas! Hey, Castiel. If you’re out there, we could really use your help.” I blink. Dean has his head bowed. He’s … he’s praying? “Uh. Pretty please? Tout suite, man, it’s an emergency. Please.”

A flutter of sound. The impression of wings and the feeling of empty air that’s suddenly, _not_. “I’m here, Dean.”

Dean starts, and he takes a rough breath. Sam’s grip on me tightens. I follow their eyes and see a man.

Just a man.

One that wasn’t there before, standing in the middle of an otherwise empty forest, in a trench coat.

Uh. What?

Dean steps up to him and I see they’re about the same height. Or, actually, Dean’s a little taller. “Yeah. Hey, Cas. Thanks for coming.” Dean’s voice has changed – deferential in a way I haven’t heard in the short time I’ve known him. “We, uh. We could use your help.”

The newcomer’s hair is dark and there’s a stillness about him that would probably make me nervous. Otherwise (if he hadn't just appeared out of nowhere), he could be my (handsome) banker, or anyone who might walk into the bar. The man’s eyes flick over the three of us and his expression doesn’t change. “What do you require?” 

“Require?” Dean’s expression moves quickly past disbelief, back to respectful. “Well, Kelsey here’s been hurt. Can you help her? Please?”

Blue eyes flick over me again, dispassionately. I’d shiver, if I weren’t already. He tilts his head to one side and his expression doesn’t change, even a little.

“Why would I do that? It’s her time.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Logically, there’s no reason that what this stranger has said should upset me, because how could he know? I’m still here, still alive. If Dean and Sam can get me to a hospital, I’ll be fine. What does some guy in a trench coat know? So, yeah. Hearing him say it’s my “time” doesn’t mean anything, but I still can’t breathe past the knot that’s blocking my throat.

“You’re kidding, right?” Dean finally says -- an agonized half-laugh, wrapped in disbelief. “It can’t be. She’s only _here_ because …” He stops, his eyes flicking up to Sam’s face and then mine. “Because of me.”

The man’s brow furrows, the look on his face somewhere between impatience and anger. He’s listening, it seems. Blue eyes glancing up, his head angles the other way.

It’s clear he’s listening to something now, but no one’s talking. I want to laugh, because wasn’t this evening crazy enough already? There is nothing else out here. All I can hear is my own too-shallow breathing, my own heart pounding, and distantly -- the wind through leaves. An owl somewhere far away. But a few moments later, he nods. “Yes.” He speaks softly, with a short shake of his head. “I am sorry, but she’s not long for this world.”

Neither of the men with me even blink at the stranger’s odd choice of words. “Only if you don’t help,” Dean snaps. “Fix it. You can heal her.”

 _“Dean,”_ Sam says, more a warning than anything else.

The stranger ignores Sam, but mirrors his, _“Dean,_ ” as if trying to reason with a child. “She’s moving on.”

Sam’s mouth opens, but before he says anything, Dean blows a harsh breath, looking away. “You’re wrong,” he growls. And then, with more force, “That’s not happening.” Running an unsteady hand through his hair, he glances over. His eyes catch mine and I blink quickly, trying to get rid of tears I hadn’t even realized were there. The arms around me tighten, and I will myself to stop shaking. Not so easy. Sam’s gaze is hard on the man they call Cas, but he doesn’t try to interrupt again, letting his brother take the lead. I wonder if this is normally how they operate.

That thought is fuzzy around the edges, though. I try to take a deeper breath (why can’t I get enough air?) and my head tips back in time to see Sam frowning down at me. He kneels, setting me down enough that my legs are on the ground. I realize why a moment later, when his hand gently moves mine away from my stomach. He presses down and I gasp, nerves lighting up like fireworks behind my eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters. “You weren’t pressing hard enough.” I nod, feeling the air cool my hand, where it’s hanging by my side. It’s cold and it hits me that it’s my _blood_ making it that way.

I decide maybe I shouldn’t look at my hand right now.

Some part of me is also wondering why we’re still here. If what Sam said was true, shouldn’t we be at least _trying_ to get to the hospital?

I mean, he might not be right on the amount of time. Sam couldn’t possibly know how long it would take a person to bleed out … right?

Both Dean and Cas pause, two pairs of eyes flicking over and back again. Dean’s impatient, shifting his weight and holding himself back, a force of will that I can see in the restless movement of his hands, fisting at his sides. Almost snarling, he says, “You’re such a hypocrite.” A look passes over Cas’ face; one that I can’t name, but has my stomach twisting. Dean doesn’t seem bothered by it, doesn’t seem to even notice it, plowing on. “You expect me … _us_ … to be ready to step up and help you.” He gestures, sharply, and it includes all of us. “I told you we’re down here, dying! Come _on._ Throw us a bone, man.”

Eyebrows drawn down, the blue-eyed man says, “I fail to see how throwing bones would help anyone,” and he pauses, as though he’s still trying to sort out what Dean meant. “She’s seen shadows she shouldn’t.  Even if I do what you ask, her life will never be the same.”

One side of Dean’s mouth curls up in a sneer. “That’s reason enough to let her die? Fix that, too, then.”

So far, Castiel’s been talking in the same calm tone, his voice a little stilted and one pace off normal. I’ll admit to being a little out of it -- I just want to not _hurt_ anymore -- but even I can hear the challenge in Dean’s voice. Cas tilts his head back, eyes narrowing. He steps in closer to Dean. “It’s not my place to intervene in this.”

Dean isn’t intimidated. All deference and that careful distance he’d been keeping seems forgotten, green eyes narrowed, too. He leans forward, spitting, “That’s bullshit. Angels interfere. _Intervene._ I’ve seen it.” He sneers. “You do whatever suits you.” There’s another message there, underneath all that anger, but I don’t know what it is.

And did he just say angels?

“That’s not true.” Cas’s voice is lower and there’s something in it, just at the edge of my hearing, that says ‘ _not normal_.’ That stomach churning expression is there again, reflected in glinting blue eyes. Sam’s tense, pulled tight. He may be letting Dean lead, but that dangerous look from the bar is back -- that sense that he’s just waiting to see what happens.

There’s danger in the air, pushing up against the fog my thoughts are swimming in. It’s vibrating and explosive and I don’t realize it, but I must have shifted, uneasy. Sam looks down at me again and that sharpness in his gaze melts a bit. He shakes his head minutely and mouths, _“It’s okay.”_

It doesn’t seem okay. Dean laughs in response to what Castiel says. It’s a short, bitter sound. “It is true.” Dean’s gaze flicks to something I hadn’t noticed in the dim light. A scar, almost a brand, on one bare shoulder. “You’re a real laugh, you know that?” he says. “If you hadn’t _interfered_ with me, with Hell, I wouldn’t have been here to get her hurt.”

That scar, it looks. It looks like … and Castiel’s eyes drop there, too, while he waits until Dean finishes. His jaw is clenched and he exhales like he’s trying to keep his temper, fails. “We’ve already had a discussion, haven’t we? About your lack of respect?” His gaze passes over the three of us, before it falls, heavy, on Dean. “Who are you, Dean Winchester, to question why or what I do. To question how I _interfere_?” Sam takes a short, sharp breath, because suddenly Cas, _Castiel_ , is leaning into Dean’s space. I see the flinch that Dean tries to hide, when one hand hovers, not quite touching, over that mark on his shoulder. The angel lowers his voice, like he’s telling Dean something private, but what he’s saying is clear in the still night air. “Unless. You’re saying you wish I hadn’t.” He’s entirely too close, one edge of his trench coat almost brushing against the claw marks on Dean’s chest. “Are you saying you want to go back?”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He swallows. “No. I’m not saying that.”

“Or that I shouldn’t have interfered at all?” The words are curious and not quite shy of taunting. There’s a hollowed out look in Dean’s eyes, that feels like someone’s tearing away pieces of me, one piece at a time. “Should I have left you there, in Hell, to be torturer? Or _tortured,_ still?” One side of his lip curls. “Remade into Alastair’s plaything … his … _pet_.” And Dean’s breathing fast now. His eyes dropped to the leaves at their feet.

I remember how pale Dean had been, tied to that post … _Should I have left you there, in Hell … to be tortured ... Remade …_ Oh god. What were they saying?

Sam takes a step forward, all the softness in his voice gone. “Stop it, Castiel. Either help us, or don’t, but don’t be a dick.” He waits a beat, and there’s fury bubbling under the surface of what he says next. “I didn’t think you were cruel.” Another pause. “Respectfully.”

That seems to take the other man (angel) by surprise. He looks at Sam, thoughtful. Then he steps back, away from Dean. For a moment, something like remorse flashes in the depths of those blue eyes. But it’s there and gone again, before I can really be sure. Dean’s eyes flick up to Sam and move away. He takes a deep breath, lets it out and I try not to really notice it’s a little shaky on the exhale.

Not noticing is easy, probably because the forest is starting to spin. It seems like the little light there is, is fading. Stepping closer to Sam and I, Castiel says, “Lay her down.” I shake my head. I don’t know if I want this angel’s help. And God help me, if he’s an angel, maybe I’m not dying. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.

Sam does as he’s told while I’m shaking (and it’s not just my head, now). I’m not sure if it’s shock or fear. There’s power, coiled like a snake inside this quiet-looking man in a brown trench coat. It’s in the way Dean looked away from the threat in his voice, in the way Sam didn’t dare approach, even when he stood up to protect his brother. After everything I’ve heard, he’s more frightening than the wolf-men, or the witch we’d faced before.

Though something tells me Sam and Dean wouldn’t hesitate, if they thought Cas meant to hurt me, it still does something to me. Seeing these men that I think I might trust -- are frightened, when they haven’t broken a sweat on anything else. So, when Sam sets me down, it leaves me shaken and frightened. From the corner of my eye, I can see they’re right there, but suddenly I feel so alone.

Everything hurts too much to even try to move away. My teeth are chattering ( _shock and blood loss, Kelsey_ ) and I don’t know what to expect from the man advancing on me. But when Castiel steps up to me, that dispassionate, almost cruel, look on his face is gone. His expression softens, his blue eyes capture mine.

“Kelsey.”

I hear his voice, low and calm, but that’s not what makes my shivering stop and my eyes widen. It’s what I see in his eyes – they pull me in and I’m falling, but it’s not frightening at all. This man (this _angel_ ) has lived.

A thousand, thousand lifetimes, each with its joy, pain and sorrow. And I know ... that no matter what I might be to him, or anyone else, he … he understands. It’s a kind of acceptance that I’ve never experienced, and there’s love there, too. Deep and still and clear. I feel tears spill, track down over my cheeks, without really understanding why.

I don’t see him move, but his hand reaches up, two fingers placed against my forehead.

“It’s going to be … okay. Sleep.”

* * *

The bar is quiet tonight. I miss the raucous sound of laughter and the clink of glass. But nights like this are good, too. Nights like this are when you really get to know people. Quiet drinks and the murmur of conversation. Sad stories and celebrations. So, it’s all good.

Most of the regulars have decided to stay in, I guess, because the place is about half-empty and I’m already bummed about the slim tips I’ll be bringing home tonight.

“Hey darlin’. Can I get a couple beers?” I look up, nodding at the man across from me. He’s like a lot the guys that come in here, young and casual, in blue jeans and a couple of layers for fall weather. I take this in about the same time I absently note he’s handsome. The chiseled playboy/model type of handsome, in case you’re wondering. His eyes are green. The green of a forest after the rain, or grass lit up with morning dew. They make my breath catch and then he smiles. _Damn._

He drops a few bills on the bar and I can’t help but notice he’s included a generous tip. I smile back, reaching down as I answer, “Two beers, coming up. And thank you,” nodding at the money and snagging two bottles to pass them over.

Another man steps up to the bar, sits down on an empty stool. “Hey Sammy,” says green-eyes.

“You’re taking too long, Dean. I’m thirsty.” This one’s tall, handsome in a boy-next-door kinda way. He smiles at me.

_Dimples._

I get flashes, then, sense-memories coming home, poking at the edges of my thoughts. The rumble of a car engine, the smell of cologne. Green eyes, dark with worry. The feel of a hand, warm against my lower back, and this man’s voice. These strangers’ voices. ‘ _If this were a nightmare, you’d have different company.’_ _‘You can trust us.’_ I shake my head to clear it.

“You okay?” It’s green-eyes. Dean.

“Yes,” I smile into that watchful gaze, noting the crease of worry between the man’s brows. “I’m fine.” He grins, that careful expression melting away.

“Good,” he says, exhaling. “Great.” Half-turning, he continues, “Sam, I’d like to introduce you to our fine bartender.” I blink away the strange sense of déjà vu, and look at the taller man, hair hanging in his face.

Sam nods at me, friendly and half-smiling, a knowing look in his hazel eyes.

“Nice to meet you … miss?”

God, his voice feels so familiar. _‘You’re going to be okay.’_ Pushing back the weird thoughts, I focus on the here and now. I must be remembering last night’s dreams or something. That’s what I get for having Thai food and cranberry juice for dinner last night.

Sam’s still waiting for me to answer. “Kelsey,” I say, half smiling and picking up a rag, swiping it across the bar to give my hands something to do.

“Kelsey,” Dean repeats, grinning slow and a little teasing, like he knew my name all along and it was a secret. Just-Between-Us.

I feel my heart skip and quickly tell myself (sternly), _he’s the kind momma warned you about._ And maybe after last year, there should be something else there, a twinge of something like unease. But now, there’s nothing. Just a little thrill that these two good-looking guys are, _yes_ , flirting with me.

 _Nice_.

They crack their beers, each taking a pull. Into the momentary silence, I can’t help but ask, “So, what’re you in town for? Vacationing?”

Dean and Sam both smile at that, and Dean looks away a moment before glancing back. “Just passing through.”

Sam nods. “Yep. Just passing through.”

There’s a twinge of disappointment, but them’s the breaks, being in this profession. This isn’t the kind of town people come to vacation in, generally. New faces don’t often stick around.

“Well, too bad. It would’ve been nice to see you around. You sure you don’t want to see the town before you go?”

Dean smiles. “Are you offering a tour?” There’s no doubt he’s flirting now, and I feel my face heat.

I laugh and shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t help you there. My car is on the fritz.”

Sam’s eyes flick over to Dean. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks.

I shrug. “I could tell you, if I could afford to take it in.”

“Ah, that’s tough.”

Huffing a small laugh, I say, “No kidding!” lifting one shoulder. And not wanting to bum out good-tipping (and good looking) customers, I finish, “But, no worries. I’ll find a way to get it running again.”

The men nod, and there’s a moment when we’re interrupted by a guy wanting a drink and hey, he shouldn’t be irritated that I’m asking him to show ID -- he just turned twenty-one last night, by what it says. The two are silent for a bit and I take a moment to tidy up behind the bar. When I look up again, Dean offers, “I’m pretty good with cars.” He gestures at the front window, and I see a sleek black muscle car parked out front. “I could take a look at yours.” He’s all kinds of sincere and he may be a stranger, but something tells me I can trust him.

It stuns me a bit, that he’d offer that to a random bartender and he’s sitting there with this wry kind of smile on his face. “Really?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful, because it’ll be months before I have the money to fix my car otherwise. So, hell yeah, I’m hopeful.  And well … did I mention how green this guy’s eyes are?

I’m pretty sure I fail miserably at trying not to sound both hopeful and a little flitter-pated, because Sam grins, dimples out in full force. And oh boy. Between the two of them, I may just have a heart attack. And great. Now Dean’s grinning, too.

“We got anything going, Sam?” Dean asks. “Think we can lend Kelsey a hand, maybe tomorrow morning?” he asks, one eyebrow up and asking both of us at the same time. I lift my hands in an omg-thank-you kind of way and Sam shrugs as Dean continues, “Before we head out?”

Sam hesitates, but only a moment. “I think we have time enough for that.”

“Awesome.” He grins, and there’s that weird sense of déjà vu again, ‘ _that’s our cue.’_ But it disappears quicker than before, swallowed by the sense of relief that I might not have to keep walking home in the dark.

He’s tipping back his beer, draining the last of it when I say (before I even think), “That would be so great. I’d be happy to treat you to dinner, maybe show you around, after.” At that, they pause, something in their smiles going a little brittle. Sam’s still smiling at me but it’s more tempered now, and Dean’s looked away. My heart kind of stutters, because. _As if_ , right? Except I really hadn’t meant anything and there wasn’t anything wrong with offering to feed someone who’d do such a favor. Nothing wrong with offering to show someone around town. Right?

And then the moment breaks when Dean stands up to stretch, leaning on the bar. “Hey, I’m not one to pass up free food,” and he winks at me. He rolls one shoulder, wincing a bit, but some of the ease comes back into his posture. Then he says, and he sounds truly sorry, “but we’ll have to take a rain check on the tour.”

Sam’s nodding his agreement, hazel eyes regretful. “We’ve got to be heading on.” They’re saying the right things, but I can’t help but feel there’s something they’re not telling me. As if he heard the thought, Sam says, “We’ve done what we came to do.”

Hiding my disappointment (and so many shades of embarrassment), I nod. “Ah, okay.” And can’t help confirming, “But you’re sure it’s not too much trouble to take a look at my car?”

“Yeah, Kelsey. It’ll be fine. We’ll get you back in the driver’s seat in no time.” We exchange cell numbers and agree to text in the a.m.

Finally, I ask, “That thing you’re in town for … I hope it went well?”

Sam nods, smiling that knowing smile again. “It did.”

“Good. Well, cause for celebration, then.” I huff a laugh. “Especially if it means you have time to help a damsel in distress,” rolling my eyes skyward. I tilt my head, indicating the near-empty bar. “And … any night that doesn’t end in a brawl is a good night for me,” I grin. “Can I buy you a round?”

Dean grins back. “Why, that’d be real nice of you, Kelsey, thank you.”

Reaching down, I pull out two more frost-covered bottles.

* * *

And with a few minutes of easy conversation in a quiet bar, that’s how I met Sam and Dean Winchester. Funny, right?

The next day was supposed to be easy, too. They were just going to see if they could get my car running.

Simple.

Heh. Well. Apparently, nothing’s simple when it involves those two.

 

 

 

... end ...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: hey, everyone (three re-writes later), it’s done! Thank you to those who have followed this story, I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always appreciated. :)
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted to fanfic


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